


On Hypothermia

by nowaynotme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Self Harm, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:48:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowaynotme/pseuds/nowaynotme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything is automatic now. Muscle memory. Make sure Sherlock eats, sleeps, doesn't blow things up. Make sure criminals don't get to him. Keep waking up. Get out of bed, smile at Mrs. Hudson. Don't let your new cuts show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Hypothermia

**Author's Note:**

> For now this is a one-shot, but I may continue it later on. This is my first fic so any feedback would be greatly appreciated.  
> I've used a lot of what John feels from my personal experience. I hope it rings true.  
> Please heed the tags and take care of yourself.
> 
> EDIT 28.8.14: Sorry for the massive edit this fic went through. I kept reading it over, and every time it felt like it was missing something. So I did my best to fix that.

Everything is automatic now. Muscle memory. Make sure Sherlock eats, sleeps, doesn't blow things up. Make sure criminals don't get to him. Keep waking up. Get out of bed, smile at Mrs. Hudson. Don't let your new cuts show.

It starts when he passes a field one winter morning. He thinks he could lie down in the middle of a field and wait. The cold would wake him up. As his skin temperature drops his blood would swim around his vital organs, a desperate dance to stay alive. The dance spreading to his muscles mere minutes later, shaking and shivering. The brain gives up, goes fuzzy. The muscles give in. The blood thickens. There would be fire, so much fire. And then, finally, the heartbeat would slowly fade to nothing.

Sherlock assumes he has figured out all of John's secrets. This makes it easy to hide these fantasies and his habit of tearing apart his body in hopes of tearing apart his mind. If it could not be fixed, then it deserved to burn. Let him cut it down to pieces and stuff them in the holes he found himself punching in other people. John knows he is a selfish man. He takes and ruins everything in the people he loves. So he stopped loving long ago.

This does not stop him from loving Sherlock. It only makes him deny it.

\---

“Come along John, we’re going on a trip!” Sherlock whirls the doctor into his room and starts stuffing his clothes into a suitcase.

John's skin itches under his fingertips and he cannot bring himself to look away from the figure before him, eyes caught on long limbs as they spin around his empty room in a one-man ballet. He looks at the detective without really looking at him and merely allows himself to be led into the car.

\---

Sherlock did not understand what was happening to his blogger. He saw the shaking. The gasps of pain as certain parts of John collided with parts of Sherlock when they walked together. The way strong fingers sought out pulse points after a daydreaming session, as if to assure himself he was still alive. Or maybe it's a reminder.

Sherlock becomes gentle. He becomes quiet so as not to startle the house that seems to suck up all the noise. His touches graze upon his paper-thin soldier. Yet John still worsens. So he does the only thing he knows how to do. He helps John run away from his problems by taking him to the middle of nowhere. A small house he had acquired from an old client who had left this small place to him in her will. Just because he had found her daughter. Really, people continue to both bore and surprise him.

So they leave 221B, and they drive. John looks out the window the entire time.

 

\---

"I'm going out for some air." John waits for a few moments before he steps out the door. He needs to clear his head. He can't think! Can't think. Not with those eyes meeting his when he comes out of his head for breath, only to realize it is hours later. The days began to blur together. He doesn't know if he is in bed or reading a book or cooking food. He doesn't notice Sherlock's hands draping the blanket over him or slipping through his fingers to take away these burning things. These cutting things. These fingers that bind his bleeding arm on the bathroom floor. He does not notice the kisses that are placed there. How could he? They are fleeting, lighter than air.

The cold meets him but it stings in a way he's used to. He thinks he should have bundled up more. There are trees everywhere and they lead him forward, arms outstretched in hallelujah's.

John trusts the trees and they lead him further and further and off a cliff.

\---

John should have been home two hours ago.

\---

He can't help it, he laughs. Really, to get into this situation now of all times. He is sure he broke his leg and maybe a wrist. There is blood everywhere. Honestly, he can’t find it in himself to care enough to figure it out.

He knows he is going to die. There's no use fighting it.

Then light connects with skin.

John does not know how long he had been out there, but when the clouds move away the moon shines on him through the branches of the trees surrounding. He can't remember the last time he laughed so much. So he takes his time. Skimming quickly through his early years, he spends hours thinking about his life at 221B. Hours thinking of Sherlock. And John lets himself love, just then. Fleeting. He loves, and then he lets it go. He takes the time to feel the snow around him, to admire the beauty of the moon, he shivers for so long until finally, finally, things start to go blurry.

This may have been the wrong time, but he's not afraid of dying.

So he closes his eyes.

\---

John can hear voices. Is he dead? Oh god, he wanted to end. Why the fuck did there have to be an afterl—

That is when John hears the familiar rumble of his friend. Sherlock. So, not dead.

John opens his eyes.

It takes a moment to get his bearings but he is so cold and alive and there is Sherlock. 

He's alive.

There is no more air anymore. Sitting up, clutching his hand to his chest. Beating. It's beating.

Sherlock's hands are there again, meeting his before they scramble everywhere. His own way of checking for life. For reality.

“John, what’s wrong? What’s the problem? Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?”

“I—why am I still alive?”

Sherlock tries to give him a gentle smile amidst his haste, “You were gone for so long, I went looking for you, and I found you. It's okay now."

John doesn't know if he should be happy, angry, sad, confused, so he is all of these things and it's too fucking much.

“John, what’s wrong?”

But that’s when the confused look on Sherlock’s face gives way to a look of beautiful, terrible understanding.

“You wanted to die.”

As John's breathing starts to level out, he whispers a quiet, "Yes."

And Sherlock doesn't say any more. His hands are slowing now, pausing around his neck and thumbs are placed over the pounding there before they continue.

Alive.

Motion, always moving. They skitter along the scars and scabs trailing up his arms.

He's alive.

Sherlock gets into the bed with him, mindful of the wires and the broken bones and the shaking blogger. The kisses are there again and John can feel it now.

You're alive.


End file.
